


8 Bullets

by xocean



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Atoning, Canon-Compliant, Gen, Pietro Angst, Sad sad sad, Wanda Needs a Hug, Wanda-centric, filler for pre-Civil War, group fic but not really, mentions of Pietro, no civil war spoilers, paternal Clint Barton, post AOU, pre civil war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:31:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xocean/pseuds/xocean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She loves her brother. Her brother is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	8 Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a filler to how things came to be with Wanda when we meet her again in Civil War. Because I fell in love with her after the movie, and Clint Barton taking care of Wanda like she's his own makes me feel all warm and soppy.

Wanda tries not to dwell on it too much, because that's one thing each of her therapists have said, more or less, before they were inevitably replaced - _don't live in the past_. Give yourself time to heal, they told her, but don't stay there for too long. And for the most part Wanda has no trouble coping with her new life. She's even established an emotional routine of sorts: Morning, wake up, train until evening and feel nothing much determination to succeed. Night comes, let all her emotional exhaustion come into play via fitful sleeps, endless nightmares and Pietro's reanimated corpse staring at her.

It's not an easy thing, Wanda will admit, but she manages it. She's taught herself the delicate art of compartmentalizing things, which is where she puts all the bad and hurt and pain to the back of her mind, until she is alone enough to deal with it. Wanda learned that one after the sixth therapist they tried to send her to - she had gotten curious and Googled it, and the takeaway was this useful little thing.

" _Maximoff._ " Captain Rogers' voice in her comm is soft. " _War Machine_ _'s in position. Ready to go in 3... 2..._ "

Wanda pushes forth her red aether at _1_ , the windows of the building exploding into little silvery pieces. High above her hiding spot, James Rhodes dives into the windows, and Wanda catches a glimpse of Natasha Romanoff tuck-rolling into the window as he drops her into it. She waits for her cue.

" _Security disabled_ ," Romanoff says, amidst gunfire and sounds of fighting.

This is it. She breaks into a run, Rogers close behind her, as they clear the now empty laser field. They dash up the stairs, Rogers' strength pushing him ahead of her, and they find Rhodes steady in combat with a bunch of masked men. He's inching ever closer to Romanoff, who's bent over a sizable bomb with a frown - and now they come for her.

Rogers dives into the fight like he is born for it. Wanda, calmer, puts up a forcefield to block the bullets, then pries their guns away with ease. Then she goes in, too, putting her new fighting skills to use.

The masked men pour in one after one, and soon they begin to struggle.

"Romanoff," Rogers barks out.

"One second." She replies, fingers tangled in the wires.

Wanda doesn't pay attention, choosing to focus on the five men surrounding her. She closes her eyes, summoning the aether, and wipes them out with an outward punch. She has to hunch over her knees - using this much of her power at a time tires her out immeasurably, she's discovered, but there's no time. Rhodes whips around and barely nicks a guy coming her way with a few gun blasts, then Wanda's on her feet again, blocking a punch -

"Done." Romanoff says.

A red light goes off, bathing them all in its glow, and then the men disappear. A loud synthetic voice speaks.

_'Simulation: bomb diffusion: complete.'_

Rhodes' mask slides down, revealing his face, and Rogers grabs his shield. Wanda wipes sweat off of her brow, while Romanoff jogs over to them, bomb in hand, and she holds it out for them to see. It's yellow and there's a ton of wires coming out of it, and Wanda is thinking that if she had been chosen to diffuse it this would have gone horribly. The timer on the bomb flashes bright blue on 0:13.

"Good job." Rogers says. He rips off the helmet from his head. "Hit the showers."

* * *

Wanda lets the cold water wash over her body. She's outwardly calm, but inwardly gearing herself up for what comes next.

The team training, the simulations - Wanda almost likes it. It's probably the only part of her day where she doesn't have to employ any thinking or feeling beyond surviving and listening to orders. In training, Wanda does not have to listen to Wilson and Rhodes' jokes and think about how Pietro would have bantered with him. She doesn't have to watch Rogers speak and turn to roll her eyes, with Pietro, about how _good_ and _inspiring_ the man is, only to realize there's an empty space where her twin used to be. It goes on and on and on.

But this? When they are all done with their schedules and now have to eat and go to bed? This is the most difficult thing she has ever had to do. Wanda has never been alone before, which is a concept no one seemed to understand. Or no one is capable of understanding. Wanda has had a brother the moment she entered the world, right up to the second eight bullets pierced Pietro's body. She had counted. When Rogers, eyes downcast and regret written in every line of his body, led her to where Clint Barton was sitting, hunched over her dead brother, that was the first thing she had done.

Wanda had wanted to see the number of bullets that had managed to defy Pietro's electric blue speed. It's 8. 8 bullets had put an end to the last thing Wanda loved in this world. 8 bullets to take away his jokes, his favorite food, his love of traditional Sokovian music, his constant, comforting presence. 8. Wanda has never thought herself capable of hating a number. But then again, she never thought herself capable of feeling a deep, ingrained hatred of a robot, yet she had ripped Ultron's useless vibranium heart right out of him anyway.

Wanda lays down on the bed and wishes it could have been her. But then, wouldn't it be selfish of her to wish this pain on Pietro? Does she _care_ that it would be selfish? She doesn't, not really.

Mostly because it is a huge, gaping reminder that _her life here_ is a life without Pietro, without the comforting thought that there is one kin of Wanda's left in the world, and now he's gone. And a life without Pietro, a life without the last member of her family, didn't seem worth living. Wanda has done her math and she knows that between the members of her team there's more than enough dead people for all of them, but Pietro's absence was more than that - he is a gaping wound in Wanda's heart who heals and reopens within seconds each night, bleeding and scraping the edges of her veins, forcing her to turn over her shoulder every day with half formed words - _Look, Pietro_ \- only to realize he's not there, he's never there, he isn't going to be there anymore Pietro is gone Pietro is dead Pietro is _dead_

Something like a gasp leaves Wanda's half-open mouth. Her cheeks are wet and her hands fist themselves in the sheets. There's a sickening moment where Wanda thinks this is it, this is when her control breaks, and she closes her eyes.

She loves her brother. Her brother is dead.

* * *

It's a quiet afternoon in facility cafeteria. Wanda wraps up her lunch and uses her magic to toss it in the dustbin.

"Nice." Clint Barton says, ten feet away. Wanda does not care to wonder when he got there.

She nods at him.

"How you doing, kid?"

Wanda nods again. "Fine."

He doesn't reply or examine her answer, opting to sit down in front of her at the table. They go through this routine every two weeks, when Barton comes to visit her, Wanda presumes to work off his guilt. His visits had been weekly in the beginning, then one day he told her, a little apologetically, that he'd be dropping by twice a month because of the baby. Wanda isn't particularly fond of him visiting her like she is a patient on a deathbed, but she won't - can't - tell him to stop. Somehow, over the weeks, Barton has become a link to her life before 8 bullets.

"How is Nathaniel?" Wanda says.

Even the mention of his son brings a brief light to the archer's face. "He's good. Said his first word yesterday," Barton adds with a fond smile.

"Oh?"

"Yep. 'Mama'."

"Oh."

They sit in silence. Nathaniel's middle name is the only reason why Wanda asks about him, at least it was in the beginning. Now, Wanda thinks she just wants it to grow up safe and strong. She had given Barton her blessing, of course, when he'd asked if it was alright to use Pietro's name. Wanda hadn't even hesitated. Maybe in this boy, the name can flourish, unharmed.

"How's training?" Barton asks.

Wanda shrugs. "Romanoff is teaching me Krav Maga this week."

Barton gazes at her for a bit. "You like it?"

"Yes." It's hard work, and requires all of her focus. "I looked it up on the internet before starting."

"Yeah?"

"Looks simple, but is deadly." Wanda says. She had been mesmerized by the videos, the smooth deadliness of the attacks.

"She showed me the training tapes." Barton's gaze is level on her. "Could say the same for a lot other things."

Somehow, it feels different when it comes from Barton than it does from Romanoff or Rogers. 

* * *

"Wanda. I was wondering if we could have a word."

 _No_ is on the tip of her tongue as she turns, but Wanda knows it is in vain. If there's one thing she's learned over the course of her stay here, it's that it's hard to say no to Steve Rogers.

He looks at her, somehow making an odd mixture of determination and earnestness work for him, clad in active wear.

Or rather, Wanda muses vaguely, that Steve Rogers doesn't take _no_ easy.

"Of course."

She lets him lead the way to one of the offices. Wanda thinks longingly about the bath she was going to take. Weekends are usually their leisure days, but Saturdays mean medical lab to Wanda. There, she and a few other doctors and physicists attempt to understand the body modifications she had gone through. Once, when she dropped by, Romanoff offhandedly commented that the entire thing would be a whole lot easier if Banner was around. Wanda hadn't been a fan of her facial expression as she said it. Romanoff never came back.

The testing and whatnot usually left Wanda tired. One of the few things that makes it better is a hot bath, which she can take in the quiet privacy of her quarters. Wanda didn't mind it, for the most part. It's sometimes painful and sometimes not, but she likes learning about herself.

Rogers paces for a minute before glancing at her. "For the record, I'm here because Sam thinks I should do this."

Confused, Wanda quirks a brow. "Do what?"

He takes a breath. His nervousness makes her want to laugh, maybe a little unkindly.

"We need to talk about your therapist situation," Rogers says.

All of Wanda's humor vanishes. "I see," she says.

"Sam thinks," Rogers repeats, then seems to catch himself. "And I agree, that you need a good support system. This life... it can be too much." Suddenly, there's a faraway look in his eyes that makes Wanda look closer, head tilting. He blinks at her, expression becoming stern. "And you ran out your eighth therapist this week."

Wanda stares at him. What would he know? "I don't like them."

"We can find one you do like," Rogers starts. "We have the resources, god knows we have the money -"

"I mean I don't like therapists." Wanda cuts him off. "I don't like the sessions. And I think I don't need one, anyway."

"Wanda. Given the things that happened -" Rogers must have seen her face shift, because Wanda sure as hell felt her mood shift, and he backs off. There's a softer look in his eyes now. Wanda can't decide if she is irritated by it or not. "I think you could use someone to talk to," he says gently.

"Do you have a therapist?" Wanda demands, deciding that yes, his kid gloves are actually irritating her.

Rogers is taken aback, but only for a second. "No. I don't."

"Why?" Wanda asks acidly, "You don't need someone to talk to?"

Rogers is silent then. His expression cools, a small frown blossoming on his face. Wanda watches his in-charge, good-natured demeanor give way to something more closed off and sad, and she feels a little bad.

"I don't know how to translate my thoughts properly sometimes. I apologize."

Rogers blinks, waves a hand, his frown disappearing. There's a good-natured smile on his face now, and Wanda is fascinated by it, by him. How can a person be so transparent, and so firm in their personality?

"Don't. You didn't do anything wrong." Rogers tells her. He's looking at her differently, like he's trying to piece a puzzle together. "I'm sorry if I was being nosy."

She shakes her head, wonders how Pietro would handle this if their roles were reversed. The answer comes naturally to her. "It's your job."

Rogers double-takes, blinking, then finally laughs. When he recovers, the look on his face is clearer, like something _finally_ makes sense. Wanda finds herself smiling, too.

"Well, you're not wrong," Rogers says warmly. "But this isn't an obligation. I need to know if my team is sound and ready for battle. In every way that matters," he says before Wanda can say something.

Wanda withholds a sigh and looks at him. She understands what Rogers is saying, and to an extent, she understands _why_ he's saying it. It doesn't change the fact that Wanda doesn't want anyone in her head. A little hypocritical of her, sure, but there it is. So they're back to square one.

"I don't want another therapist," Wanda says flatly. "I won't do it."

Rogers watches her thoughtfully for a second. "I think I have an idea," he says a little carefully, "But I don't know if you'd like it."

* * *

Wanda agrees, mostly because she wants Rogers to drop the idea of her and a therapist, but also (just a little) to see what Sam Wilson can actually do. What he does, it turns out, is stand there a little guiltily, much like Rogers had done, rocking on his heels.

Wanda would be lying if she says she isn't completely enjoying it. She almost wants to laugh at Wilson's discomfort. And then she has that thought again, that _instinct_ really, to turn and smirk about it with Pietro - and then all of her desire to laugh vanishes. Wanda vaguely muses that that stabbing, now-familiar ache in her heart hasn't dulled even a little.

"Listen," Wilson says finally, "I didn't plan this." He mutters something about kicking Rogers' ass.

Wanda shrugs. That isn't her problem. "Can I sit?"

"Of course! Of course. Wherever you like."

Wilson's quarters isn't the first of her teammates she's been in, but Wanda's only been in Vision's quarters so far, and for some reason he doesn't quantify as _stranger_ or _teammate_ to her, so she feels rather strange, walking inside as Wilson closes the door behind her. Wanda doesn't really know much about the guy, but weirdly, the place seems to reflect his personality. Brown furniture, a basket loaded with fruits, big sofa, a humming refrigerator...

Wanda thinks about her own empty, unplugged fridge in her undecorated quarters. Perhaps she'll turn it on. Maybe the place won't be as quiet then.

She takes place at one end of the sofa. Wilson hovers, then goes to the kitchen and returns with two glasses of water.

"I've got juice in the fridge if you'd prefer that," he says.

"No." Wanda says. "This is fine."

He nods, then sits on the other edge of the sofa. There's a second when Wanda thinks he's going to say something, but he promptly diverts the action by raising the glass to his mouth.

"Perhaps we should postpone this," Wanda suggests a little hopefully. "Since you are feeling uncomfortable -"

Wilson almost spit-takes with a, "I'm not uncomfortable!"

She raises an eyebrow. "I don't need my aether to sense that," Wanda says dryly.

He's temporarily distracted, blinking at her. "Wait, what? You can what?"

"Rogers says I can't use it as I like." Wanda says, unconcerned, "But sometimes I can't help it."

"For real?" Wilson looks torn between fascination and indignant. "Like, you can know what I'm feeling? Right now?"

Wanda considers this. "Not exactly," she says, struggling to translate into English what she can very easily say in Sokovian. "It's like - it's more like -"

Wilson turns his body to her, leaning on the arm of the sofa. "It's okay," he shrugs, "Take your time."

"I don't get a clear... text?" Wanda tests the word carefully. Wilson doesn't look like he's confused, but it doesn't feel right to her. "There is no... I don't get a description of your feeling." Wanda wants to fist her hands. Pietro would know. Pietro's English has always been better than hers. He was always the one who orders things for her, who casually reminds her when she mixes the adjectives up, who _taught_ her what adjectives are.

Pietro would know, Wanda thinks, and she can't believe it but tears are welling up in her eyes. _Pietro would fucking know._

Wilson has gone quiet and still, and Wanda _knows_ he can see her glassy eyes but she prays he doesn't say anything about it. His eyes focus on her, and Wanda is struggling to hold herself together when he opens his mouth.

"Subtitles." He says conversationally, and his tone is oh-so-normal but Wanda can see the gentleness in his body language. "Like subtitles?"

Wanda swallows. There it is. "Subtitles."

"So not mind reading." Wilson says it like he's checking it off an imaginary list.

"No. Like flashes." Wanda thinks about it some more. "I can feel, just a little while, maybe a few seconds, what you feel. But I know that it is not my feelings."

"How d'you know that?" He looks genuinely interested.

"I don't know." Wanda shrugs. "I just know it's not mine."

"Woah," Wilson says, "Can you do it now?"

"Do you want me to?"

They look at each other. Wilson gets this slow grin on his face, and Wanda has this really weird feeling in her chest, because she thinks she knows what he's going to say.

"I won't tell if you don't," he says mischievously.

There it is. How many times has Pietro had that exact look on his face?

"What if Captain finds out?" Wanda says, because she'll be damned if she lets herself almost break in front of Sam Wilson twice in five minutes.

"Rogers can kiss my ass," Wilson says flatly, and the mental image is so jarring, so shocking, that it startles a laugh out of her.

"Okay," Wanda says, "Are you ready?" He nods. Wanda reaches out with her magic, focuses her thoughts...

"That's creepy as hell," he says, watching the red aether creep towards him, "I'll never get used to that thing."

Wanda has to smile.

* * *

Wilson starts acting a little differently around her. Before this, they always exchange hi's and hello's (mostly instigated by him) and he has always been friendly to Wanda and everyone. And of course, he and Rhodes love making jokes at all times of the day. But now there's a camaraderie between them that Wanda doesn't entirely dislike. She likes the little inside jokes Wilson mutters under his breath to her sometimes, and the thing is, it's slowly growing on her, this ability to joke back at him. Wanda keeps Pietro in the back of her mind while doing this - between the both of them, he was the funny one, not her. But Sam laughs.

One day, Rogers says something to her about not relying on her magic 100% of the time. When he turns, Wilson mimes stabbing him in the back. Vision catches her smiling. In fact, Rhodes and Romanoff have both caught her smiling or snarking back at Wilson a few times, but Vision is the only one who asks her about it.

"You and Sam have grown close," he notes as they walk side by side.

Wanda thinks about it. "I would not say close."

"But you are good friends."

Are they? They just sit and talk these days, like they did on that first appointment, and it feels less of an appointment than anything else. Wanda makes a mental note to ask him about it.

"I suppose," she concedes.

"It does not bother you?"

One thing Wanda likes about Vision is that he does not bother beating around the bush or shrouding his words in pretty synonyms. She rather thinks he doesn't know how to, but its more likely Vision just does not care to do it.

"Not anymore," Wanda says, glancing at him.

"I'm glad for you." Vision favors her with a smile. "He likes it, and has no harmful intentions."

Wanda is a little surprised. Unlike herself, Vision wholeheartedly follows Rogers' words about ethics and morals, and as such, generally stays out of their teammates heads. Wanda will admit that while she doesn't intentionally go looking for them, if she's given a window of opportunity, she would take it. But just for a few seconds, Wanda decides, only because she suspects Romanoff actually knows.

"I wanted to explore the jungle last week." Vision shrugs. "He said we wouldn't get back in time for him to, ah, hang out with you."

Wanda feels a rush of gratitude for the fact that neither Sam nor Rogers has told anyone about their arrangement.

Vision looks a little guilty. "I had only wanted to make sure there would not be any negativeness between you."

So he'd gone into Wilson's head. Wanda is torn between being amused and being indignant on Sam's behalf. Pietro would have liked Vision, she thinks, and probably would have fucked with him a lot.

"I understand," she decides to say, "I would have done the same for you."

The person in front of them moves out of the way.

"18 dollars," the woman in the uniform says. She glances at Vision, does a slight double-take. "Um, 36 dollars."

Wanda hands over the money while Vision attempts a calming smile at the woman. They get their passes.

"I'm quite excited for this one," Vision says.

"Yes," Wanda says. "Me too."

They walk past the machine, the gawking crowd around them, and into the museum.

* * *

They get another simulation, and this time its a hostage situation. It takes place in a high guarded building with rooms so close they are almost prison-like. Their objective is to rescue the hostages without a single disturbance - one mistake equals one lost live. They dissect the mission objective together and decide that the rest will be on guard outside while Romanoff (the best at quiet infiltration) will enter and disable the multiple CCTVs, heat sensors, and motion sensors.

Then Romanoff and Rogers get into an argument when she insists on bringing Wanda.

"She's quiet on her feet, and she can take care of herself." Romanoff says, almost bored. "And her powers will come in handy."

"I agree." Rhodes says, metal faceplate flipped up. "The four of us can handle the guards well enough."

"Besides," Romanoff adds neutrally, "We can see if her mind-manipulation trick works on cameras." She nods at Wanda without missing a beat, effectively ending any awkwardness before it could have started. Wanda feels something like gratitude, and she tamps down _hard_ on that feeling, like Sam has taught her, use that one good moment to fight the flashbacks of Wakanda.

Her nails dig into her palms at the memory. Fortunately, the argument in front of her is distracting enough.

"That's exactly why I'm saying no." Rogers puts his foot down, literally, from the chair to the floor. "It's unethical and traumatizing -"

Romanoff looks incredulous. "They're simulations!"

"Still unethical." Rogers says stubbornly. Then he looks chagrined, glancing around at her. "Sorry, Wanda. You know I don't mean anything against you by that."

Wanda actually agrees that its unethical, but the prospect of doing something other than physical fighting excites her. "But I want to go."

"Of course you do." Rogers says exasperatedly.

Wanda turns to share an eye-roll with Sam.

"Its too soon." Rogers is saying. "It could affect her, too."

"How on earth -?" Romanoff looks like she is going to throw her hands up in the air, which would greatly amuse Wanda.

"Who knows?" Rogers says, but he isn't looking at Wanda and then it hits Wanda like a stone wall - she gets the feeling that he's thinking about Wakanda, too. And maybe, maybe, he's thinking about Wanda this time. He glances at her, just a little casually, and it more or less confirms her thoughts.

"We're wasting time." Romanoff says impatiently. "We're going."

Wanda looks at Rogers, who's glaring at Romanoff. Romanoff seems completely unbothered, standing there with her hands lax by her sides.

"It is a good idea," Sam says, placating. "We've been wanting to test Wanda's infiltration skills, anyway."

"You can handle it?" Rogers barks, still glaring at Romanoff.

Wanda tries not to sound too excited. For some reason she feels like she's choosing between two parents. It's a funny feeling, but Wanda chooses to focus on the possibility ahead. "Yes. I can."

"Simulation," Romanoff reminds them in a sing-song.

Rogers glares a bit more, then drops it. He heads over to the steel panel that hides the large compound where the simulation will be held. "Wanda, Romanoff. Infiltrate and disable security. The rest of us wait for your signal then attack." He presses a button and the steel panel slides away slowly. "Better be right about this," he mutters as Wanda follows Romanoff into the simulation.

"I usually am," Romanoff answers airily.

They sneak into the building quietly. Romanoff is an effortless panther in the dark, footsteps barely making a sound as she walks, body slightly bent, in front of Wanda. Wanda tries her best to mimic the stillness the other woman emits as she moves, but she's afraid even her breathing is making a sound. 

"Good so far." Romanoff murmurs suddenly. She must be checking in with Rogers, Wanda thinks. But then Romanoff turns around, making eye contact with Wanda. "Always be on guard."

Wanda nods, her hands curling with the scarlet wisps. Romanoff's eyes flick downward, then away. Wanda tries not to think about the first time she used her powers on the woman, and tries even harder to banish the memories of older Russia, ballet halls, and sterile iron objects from her mind. It stays with her, some of these things nightmares, and for some reason to Wanda Romanoff's story is the most haunting of them all. What would Wanda do had she been forced, literally from birth, to become an assassin, separated from family and forced to not keep friends? Wanda has never been alone all her life. 

Well, until now.

"I never -" Wanda actually has to use her hand to close her mouth. Her thoughts are leaking from her.

But its too late. Romanoff is already turning her head, a quizzical brow raised.

Wanda wants to sigh. Perhaps this simulation will kill her.

"I never apologized." Wanda finds herself actually praying to be stabbed. She won't even use her magic to defend herself. "For what I did."

Romanoff's face doesn't change, but she catches on at once. "Did you apologize to the others?"

"No," Wanda admits slowly, "I didn't. But I want to. I know I caused a lot of pain and... destruction."

Wanda doesn't mean to do it, but the word slips out, and she knows they're both thinking about the same person, anyway. For the first time, a shadow passes over Romanoff's face.

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"I know." Wanda says it in a rush, trying to _again_ backtrack for that. "I'm just -"

"Sweetheart." Romanoff says, and while her tone is neutrally playful as it always is, there's a lack of unkindness, along with the joking irony of the pet name, that makes Wanda pause, and listen. "This isn't my first rodeo. You're not the first person to mess with my head." She holds up a hand and carefully peers around the corner. Wanda follows her motions and flattens her back against the wall. 

Romanoff turns her head to her. "We've all done things," she says quietly, and Wanda is minutely aware that despite being teammates for over five months, this is the most intimate conversation she will have with Romanoff. "I'm not the one to absolve you. No one is. But if there's one thing I know, it's how to atone." Romanoff gestures with her chin, down to Wanda's glowing hands.

"But there's too much," Wanda whispers, flashes of pain and blood running through her mind. "Too much of the bad things." 

Natasha Romanoff tilts her head, studying Wanda, and there's something infinitely softer in her gaze as she says, "That's why we try to be the good guys."

Atonement, Wanda thinks, transfixed. What a forgiving concept. 

* * *

 "When did you learn to play guitar?" Clint says. 

"I didn't." Wanda answers, carrying the instrument inside her room. 

"Fair enough." Clint carries in a used-looking, white cabinet next. 

"Where you want this?" He asks.

"There." 

"You know, you could just magic these things into place."

Wanda makes a face at him and goes to stand at the foot of her bed and looking around her bedroom. It's not home, Wanda thinks, but it's something. 

Clint hands her something. 

She puts the picture of Pietro on the white cabinet. He looks happy and healthy in the picture, though God knows where Clint has managed to dig it up from. Wanda appreciates that he's smiling in this picture. And the brown frame compliments the blue shirt Pietro is wearing very well. It's a very good picture, Wanda thinks, and it still manages to give her pangs of heartache. But Wanda supposes it is only natural. She loves her brother even in life and in death. That much is true.

"Thank you," Wanda says softly.

"Kid." Clint is leaning on the doorframe, quiet and sincere and unlike anything Wanda has ever seen him be. His eyes are on the picture, too, but he looks at Wanda. "I'd do anything for you."

Her brother is dead. But one day she will be, too. And Wanda wants to have a lot of stories to tell him when that happens, so she'll begin collecting them now.

She looks at Clint, weathered and sincere. Perhaps she will start with little Nathaniel. "Me too."


End file.
